Opposite of Enemy
by KG
Summary: A sad and sappy little thing exploring what our heros (Mulder and Krycek, yes Krycek) might be doing with themselves 50 years from now.


  
Spoilers: None  
Summary: A sad and sappy little thing exploring what our heros  
(Mulder and Krycek, yes, Krycek) might be doing with themselves  
about 50 years from how. Rated PG. No real cursing, no sex.  
Read it anyway. :-)  
Disclaimer: Not mine. Yadda, yadda, yadda.  
Author's Notes: Many thanks to my beta readers, Scullycat2 and  
Marisa. Without them this story would be one long sentence  
separated by commas with no other helpful punctuation. This story   
can also be found on my web site...  
http://www.geocities.com/themethoshour/fic/  
  
The Opposite of Enemy  
by KG  
  
Pleasant Hills Nursing Home  
2 November 2049, 2:37 AM  
  
The first thing he always noticed when he walked into the building  
was the antiseptic smell. It was good, he supposed,  
that they took such great pains to keep things clean, but there  
was something about the smell that reminded him of his days in the  
FBI, of the autopsy room, of his various trips to the hospital,  
of death. How cruel, he thought, to constantly remind the aging  
of their next destination like that.  
  
He walked, still silently after all these years, down the darkened  
corridors. Unerringly finding his way to Mulder's room, and then  
continuing past it. He didn't bother to look inside. He knew from  
experience that Mulder would not be there. When Mulder had first  
come to this place the staff had tried valiantly to get the man  
to sleep in his bed. Eventually they were forced to admit defeat.  
  
He pushed the swinging door of the day room open a crack and  
surveyed the interior of the room for exits, hiding places...  
old habits were hard to break.  
  
There was Mulder, laying in a recliner, apparently fast asleep,   
the flicker of some late night tv show playing over his gray hair  
and wrinkled skin. He threaded a path through the card tables  
and sofas towards the tv, his own back aching with sympathy (and   
the strain of old age) for the position that Mulder chose to   
rest his body.  
  
Mulder was roused from his sleep by a hand on his shoulder. He  
opened his eyes and stared into the face of his enemy. The face  
had changed, of course. Over the years the hair had turned to pure   
white and was receding just a bit. The face was lined by time and   
trouble, but it was a face Mulder would never fail to recognize...  
the face of Alex Krycek.  
  
"Did you come to kill me this time, Krycek?" Mulder asked calmly.  
  
Krycek smiled. It was a cold smile. "The Consortium doesn't  
care about you one way or another these days Mulder, you know  
that."  
  
That hurt. Mulder knew that at 86...88...How old am I anyway?...  
he was no threat to anyone, but it still hurt to hear it spoken  
out loud.  
  
"That leather jacket you're wearing went out of style decades  
ago," Mulder replied. It was a lame attempt at an insult,   
especially since under the worn jacket Krycek wore an expensive  
suit and looked damn dignified in it. But the jacket was an  
antique and a major fashion faux paus and so Krycek acknowledged   
the truth of Mulder's comment with a wry smile.  
  
"I brought you something," Krycek said in that husky tone of  
voice that he often used. A bit gravely with age now, but to  
Mulder it still sounded like the essence of temptation.  
  
"I'm retired," Mulder grumbled. "Twenty years ago if I remember  
correctly."  
  
"Yeah, I'm really impressed by the FBI's retirement plan.  
Whatever happened to all that family money Mulder?" Krycek   
commented, his eyes taking in the worn furniture and the   
peeling paint of the day room with distaste. "And actually  
it was fifteen."  
  
"Feels like twenty," Mulder mumbled to himself, then a little  
louder, "The search for the truth is expensive. So when are   
you going to retire Krycek? You look like you've got the  
money for it."  
  
Krycek shrugged, and Mulder noticed that one arm swayed in an  
unnatural fashion -- the miracles of modern medicine still couldn't  
help some things. "The Consortium's retirement plan is a bit   
more...permanent than I prefer."  
  
The two men were silent for a while. Mulder seemed to doze in  
his recliner while Krycek watched over him, staring at the images  
flowing across the tv screen without really seeing them.  
  
Comforting...it was comforting to them both to just be in the   
presence of another person who remembered the same things, lived   
through the same times, even if they had often been adversaries.  
  
"So do you want what I've got or not?" Krycek asked into the  
silence, patting the pocket of his leather jacket where he  
held whatever little tidbit of information it was that he had  
brought to tempt Mulder out of his ennui. With no children  
or grandchildren to visit him, and few friends, Mulder's life  
had become a dull matter of simple existence. His search for   
the truth had always been his primary sustenance.  
  
"Why do you keep bringing me this stuff, Krycek?" Mulder asked --  
half afraid to hear the answer, half afraid that if he pushed  
too hard, Krycek wouldn't come back.  
  
It was Krycek's turn to mumble something under his breath, not  
meant for Mulder's ears, although Mulder heard him anyway. His  
joints and his memory may have betrayed him, but his hearing was  
as good as ever.  
  
"'Cause you're my best friend."  
  
Krycek pulled the envelope from his pocket, dropped it in Mulder's  
lap and turned to go without meeting the other man's eyes.  
  
Mulder watched him retreat for just a second, then found he  
didn't want to let him leave like this.  
  
"Alex," Mulder called.  
  
Alex stopped but didn't turn around. He was afraid to see the  
look on Mulder's face, afraid to turn around and see hatred or  
worse, pity, afraid that Mulder would tell him not to return.  
  
"Will you come back next week?" Mulder asked.  
  
Alex turned, a brilliant smile showing openly on his face,  
reminding Mulder of young Agent Krycek despite the white hair  
and lined face.  
  
Alex took the few quick steps required to bring him back to  
Mulder's chair. He leaned down quickly before Mulder could do  
anything to stop him, before he could change his mind and stop  
himself, placed his hands on Mulder's shoulders and gave the  
man a resounding smack on the cheek.  
  
"See you next week, tovarisch," Alex said. Then turned and strode  
quickly -- at least as quickly as age warring with emotion would let  
him -- out of the room.  
  
"Next week," Mulder confirmed to himself, then he lifted the plain  
manila envelope that had been deposited on his lap. It took a  
moment for his shaking hands with their swollen joints to work  
the clasp, but it was open soon enough, and Mulder peered inside  
to see what treasure Alex had brought him this week. 


End file.
